


You're dreaming...

by Jo_McKeon



Category: dreams - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Jealousy, Love, PTSD, Physical Abuse, Rating May Change, Self-Harm, Tags May Change, The Power Of Love, Verbal Abuse, Violence, Warnings May Change, violent dreams
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 17:56:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10576479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jo_McKeon/pseuds/Jo_McKeon
Summary: Violent dreams are sometimes real. And the effects on the body are even more real. PTSD.This is a little bit of me here, if anyone suffers from this or any type of emotional turmoil, and need someone to talk to, I'm always here!





	1. First throbs

New at this. I'm supposed to write to help process. To move on. But I have nothing to write. My physc wants me to write my dreams....  
...dressed in a forming pencil skirt just at the knee, silk blouse and 5" stilettos. The white silk glistened in the candle flicker, gold hair flowing behind me.   
As I stood there waiting in a rose colored lit room... it reminded me of an old study I read about in so many school books. I was nervous. The sound of the slow opening door. My nervous smile quickly turning to fear. My already pale skin turning ghastly... " am I dreaming?". Before I could say one word, he came at me like a raging beast. Screaming unrecognizable mutters. With arms high in defense, I could see my pale skin turning blue, purple, red. He takes out a knife and slices my shoulder. Again, again and again. He runs it down my bosom and carves it. Just when I think I can't take any more, he strikes me across the face, knife still in fist. I can feel the warm blood trickling down my cheek. My skin on fire. ("I'm dreaming..." ). Out of no where a tall dark figure pulls him off me and throws him to the wall, knocking him unconscience and sliding to the floor. Knife flying and stabbing the wall. I feel two arms lifting me up, shock in his eyes. Nothing but shreds left of my clothes, he takes his jacket off and wraps it around me. Quickly turns to the man now staggering to get up. Lifts him off the floor and pins him to the wall with one arm. I run, not looking behind or forward. ("I'm dreaming..."). I run and run and run. Tears (or blood?)flying behind me. The snow filled air piercing my battered skin. ("I'm dreaming!") I stop mid air. ("I'm dreaming!") only hearing a whisper of a sound, knowing it is my name, "stop! Please!"   
Im at the edge of a cliff. The abyss in front of me. One step from..."waking". "Please -----e.. please don't run. Please take my hand.." My knees give it out, but he catches me. Holds me close but gently. Blood seaping thru the shreds of silk and onto his tossled Snow White shirt. ( you're dreaming) ... -what? "Your safe now"   
Inside the police-swarmed-two-story-brick-mansion, he ushers me to a small but warm room. A girl, about 17, in "house uniform", takes me. I remember her. She was only 4 when I first saw her. Aurora? Hollie? Rory. As I sit on the edge of the bed I notice my belongings on the dresser. My doctor bag case on the ottoman, clothes hanging in the closet. Three blouses and a pair of slacks. She leaves to fetch an aid kit and patch me up.   
On the dresser, I pick up the white chief, his initials embroidered in red silk. As I run my fingers across them, I hear a scoff. She was tall. Golden skin, ginger long tresses pinned up in fashion. She threw some files at me. " Did you think you could escape your past? (You're dreaming) you should have listened to me. No one wants you here. (You're dreaming) You should have died ("you should have died.." a faint whisper). Everything I was, all in the files. People, places, pictures. 36 years summed in a few papers and a dozen pictures. " You should have died.." she whispered maliciously. ("You should have died.." faint whisper)  
The creak in the wood floor made her jolt and rush out. My tall not so mysterious rescuer at the door. The blood still pumping from my wounds. I buckle as Rory dashes spilling warm water from a dish. Both Rory and my rescuer coming closer and closer... (" you're dreaming...")   
Slowly my eyes open. Sun. Dark. Orange glow. It's the fireplace. Oh the pain! Even my hair hurts. I feel a burning sting across my chest, trickling down my arm. I gasp. But no sound is heard. Rory is tending to my wounds. Too attentive to notice my eyes are open. I've been gasping in my sleep.   
He is sitting in the corner next to the fireplace. Big loungy chair. Even in his slumber he sits upright, his head slightly resting in his left hand, propped on the arm chair.  
I look down at my wounds. They're healing. Scar tissue starting to form. Lavender bruises. I must have been out for days? Weeks?   
Rory drops somthing with a loud clank. It wakes him startle. Turns to Rory. Turns to me...he jumps to my side..  
(in a low whisper..." you're dreaming...")  
to be continued.....  
 


	2. William never knew pain...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of self harm and abuse.

" When the wind works against us in the dark,  
And pelts with snow  
The lowest chamber window on the east,  
And whispers with a sort of stifled bark,  
The beast,  
"Come out! Come out!"  
It costs no inward struggle not to go,  
Ah, no!  
I count our strength,  
Two and a child,  
Those of us not asleep subdued to mark  
How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,-  
How drifts are piled,  
Dooryard and road ungraded,  
Till even the comforting barn grows far away  
And my heart owns a doubt  
Whether 'tis in us to arise with day  
And save ourselves unaided.  
~Storm Fear, Robert Frost.

William was of many means. Although raised in a manor Marie-Antoinette herself could not live up to, William grew up unaware of his bound full life. His parents spared no time or attention. Although they had servants by the dozens, caretakers, grounds keepers, cooks, Nannies, livestock and fields to the horizon; Mother D'arcy paused her club's meetings to tend to William's cuts and bruises when Jole, his pony, had a fit and bucked him off, kissing every bruise and scrape. Mr. D'arcy thaught him the value of hard labor, teaching him how to mount and to care for his pony. William played with the servants children, only noticing their different rank when he would give them some of his new clothes when theirs where just to thin. He'd stay in his old clothes never thinking much of it. Mr. D'arcy never complained. He'd just order more clothes and sigh of happiness at having such a child. He'd hug him tight every morning and never forget the daily break playing pirates or horsy when Jole was to tired to gallop across the fields. Every need tended to, every pain kissed or hugged away. William never knew pain, abuse or neglect. His occasional misery consisting of a tired pony or having "read all the books in the (extensive) library".

Lizzie, although coming from a decent home, never knew the comfort of affection. Conceived on the hope of curing a mad woman, Lizzie grew up being "her". Many where the cuts and bruises that covered her pale flesh. Raised skin covered her thighs where burns had tormented her. Whip lashes on her back and pelvis. Lizzie didn't know what normal skin looked like. Where caresses and kisses should have been, bruises on top of bruises colored her skin. The woman, never recovered, would scream at her, hit her, burn her, slice her to her heart's content, or at least until she passed out from rage. Before tending to her own abused flesh, Lizzie would clean the woman up, helping her to her bed. Leaving her a prepared meal for when she woke.

She'd walk head hanging, down the corridors of the old house. Dripping of blood, or smelling of burnt flesh or bleach.. Past the servants, who conviniently found themselves busy every time. To the shed in back of the horse stable. Where no one kept her company, and not even the horses showed her mercy. There she lay her head next to the old Bible her grandmother had given her on her death bed, cleaning her wounds as best as her 7 year old hands could clean.

It wasn't until she was 17, that she finally had the courage to run away. Bruised and scared beyond imagination, and brain washed into believing she had deserved it.

Her face wet, not sure if from tears or the salty water that splashed with each wave. The waves tickling her toes as she sat on the shore. The Bible in one hand and the pocket blade in the other. Hoping for heaven to take her before she needed to take her matters into her own hands. No relief.

With a silent scream she dropped the Bible. Where had God been all this time?

She sobbed into her blade holding arm. The broken one just tingling in the cold breeze. Her golden hair swaying to and fro, behind her. The strong sea salt air burning her eyes.

"YOU WORTHLESS PIECE..." , sob. "YOU IMBICILE!", the sting of whip lashes on her back and pelvis relished in her flesh. "IDIOT!" The crack of wood hitting cheek bone. "YOU FILTHY.." The cold bleach poured onto her. "I WISH YOU HAD NEVER BEEN BORN!" The smell of burnt flesh peeling from her arms. "YOU FREAK!" The warm liquid spilled from her broken arm's wrist, as she remembered every single cut she slashed into her. "YOU FREAK!" "YOU FREAK!" YOU FREAK!" As if on repeat, the words echoed in her head, pounding the tears out. More and more blood seeped thru her arms as cuts appeared as if of their own. The hot liquid pouring and turning the surrounding water red.

("You're dreaming...")

"If only I hadn't make her mad...if only i was good...if only I wasn't ugly...if only I wasn't fat...if only I wasn't a freak...freak..freak...FREAK!..."

("Lizzie, you're dreaming...")

"If there is a God, just let me die..."

("Shhh shhhshuuu...")

The waves embrace her in their icy grip... "is this what it feels like to be held?". When did it get this cold? Something heavy on her forehead, she swipes at it but there is nothing there. Sweat dripping around her, or is it the waves of water? The waves begin to caress her cheeks as she lays immobile on the sandy beach. She hears splashes of water but she hasn't moved. "Am i dreaming?" Faint whispers buzz at her ears but she can't decíphere them.

Whip lash! Her body jumps. Wood breaking bone. She screams. Flesh burning. "Please! Please, no!"

"Lizzie, wake up! Lizzie... you're dreaming"

Blood trickling down and tinting the sea red. It's warm. When did it get  
warm? The blanket of waves hold her down now. "Am I drowning?"

"Lizzie..."

Her body is tired, brain almost at a stop. Silence. It's been a long time since it was this qu...no it's never been this quiet.

...a whisper...

A hand close to her face, and suddenly... "FREEEAAAK!"

She waves her arms to and fro but something is holding them down.

Just as she is about to close her eyes and give in to the lethargy and blood loss, a swish of water runs over her. Jole bucks in front of her almost lifeless body. Arms raised as a shield from practice as her body curls into fetal position. She feels the sudden warmth of hands...

She jolts from the bed with a scream into his arms....

"Will!..."

She's soaked. From head to toe in sweat.

"Sshhhhhuuushuuu, I'm right here. Lizzie, I'm right here. You're dreaming..."

 

Will never knew pain...until the day he found Lizzie.


End file.
